


Ascension

by Measured



Category: Radiant Historia
Genre: M/M, Present Tense, Sex on Furniture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:04:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured/pseuds/Measured
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Mentions spoilers.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Ascension

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions spoilers.

The grand hall is empty, the large red and gold throne no longer holds a tyrant. All the guards have been relieved in this moment of rest. It was a nigh bloodless coup, at least bloodless on their behalf. Somewhere perhaps those resistance members are cheering, singing on songs into the night through their drunkenness. Night does not find them here, in this candlelit room with its drawn curtains, plush and ordered by their former queen to keep the riff-raff out. To stop reminding her of anything nearing duty.

But then, she has done her use as a wedge, and she has served her purpose almost too well. To ensure this, Selvan thinks they'll definitely keep her alive in memory as a warning. This is the price of excess, this is the price of hubris.

Dias laughs for the sheer pleasure of it as he looks at the empty throne.

"It's beautiful? Can't you smell it?" Dias says. He spreads his arm wide, referring over the empty hall. "The scent of blood, of revolution–this is _ours_ now."

Selvan surveys the room now, with its rows of armor and red velvet almost the color of his hair. Its beauty lies in what it could become, what they will make of it.

Dias looks at him with a brightness in his eyes, lust and the thrilling satisfaction of winning. 

"Let's make an libation, then," Dias says.

"I have no wine with me–shall I call for some?" Selvan says.

"No, a libation with our bodies," Dias says. He reaches out and tugs at the collar of Selvan's tunic showing just above his armor. 

"It's ours, _ours_ ," Dias repeats in wonderment. He can only share this sentiment in his own silent way. All their years of work and intrigue and it's finally come to fruition.

Selvan looks at him, a silent question. Dias just smirks.

"I don't do things carelessly. You should know that by now," Dias says.

The thought of Dias preparing himself so early on, putting his oil-slick fingers up into himself and waiting through the day just for him leaves him dazed with wanting. He pushes Dias back into the throne without bothering to remove his breastplate. A quick tug and his leggings are off, his tunic pushed up about his stomach. He pushes Dias's legs apart roughly, and Dias wraps his arms about Selvan's neck. He feels the firm, insistent brush of Dias's cock against where his abdomen has been bared, leaving a slick trail across his skin. A second later and he's inside Dias, feeling the tightness and heat all about his cock. Dias lets out a long breath through his teeth, the only sign of discomfort. Selvan knows not to tarry too long, to inquire if Dias is okay–he'll get quite the tongue lashing if he dares to try and be gentle. Dias would never forgive him if he showed any such weakness. For all his genteel ways, Dias craves violence, the upheaval. In this way, like many others, they're equally matched.

It'd be more simple without his breastplate, but Selvan can't just stop midway. Besides, if anything Dias seems enamored with the cold feel of the steel to him. They're a mess of angles, with one of Dias's pale legs hanging over the left armrest of the throne. Yes, a bed would be easier, but it wouldn't have the thrill of this. Days before Protea sat upon this throne, and now it is theirs. 

He thrusts into Dias, clutching to the velvet and wood throne behind him for support. Dias undulates his hips, looks up at him with eyes hooded with pleasure. The only sound from Dias is a soft undertone, slight gasps and a barely audible _uh, uh, ah_ and exhale of breath. He's beautiful when he's being fucked senseless, with cheeks flushed and sweat slick down his neck, but then, Dias has always been beautiful. 

He's balls deep in his compatriot, with Dias's back slamming into the velvet red throne again and again, forming what will later be bruises. His nails dig deep into the flesh of Selvan's neck, repaying him pain for pain. He'll proudly add it to another of the war wounds he's gotten from Dias. Love scars he traces fondly when they're apart. He clings more tightly to the throne, Dias's nails are enough to draw blood. 

They come quick and rough with the aphrodisiac of victory, their bodies a graceless arc on red velvet. He can see the haze of a utopia just beyond the gold of Dias's curls. After so long, it is finally just within their grasp.


End file.
